


Call Me When You're Sober

by Marrilyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Anger, Childhood Trauma, F/F, Memories, Mommy Issues, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 18:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15467160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: Rowena's drunken episode reawakens reader's childhood trauma.





	Call Me When You're Sober

You were watching her from across the room. Glass of scotch in hand, eyes glued to the screen showing some cheesy, overacted black-and-white movie, she looked the picture of relaxed. The short, black silky nightgown hugged her curves perfectly, as if tailored specifically for her. A mane of hair, wavy and red, fell down her back and shoulders like a crimson curtain, not a strand out of place.

She sipped from the glass, sometimes small gulps, other times big swings, refilling it every few minutes. You could see her shoulders hunching and the grip on her glass growing stronger, until she finally resorted to holding it with both hands, too weak to hold it in one. She was getting lost, drowning in the deep, dark abyss that was all too familiar to you, all too frightening.

Rowena had had centuries on you; she knew better than to do this to herself, to _you._ She _should_ have known better!

Memories swirled in your head. Memories of _her;_ of the foul smell of her breath, of the way she'd look at you, trying to focus but unable to, her mind wandering god knows where while you were standing right before her, scared and alone, so damn alone, despite her being right there. You needed her, and she needed — no, _wanted_ the bottle.

Just like Rowena wanted the glass.

"Okay, that's enough!" you exclaimed, sending unwanted thoughts back to the deep, dark corner of your mind where they belonged.

Rowena flinched at the sudden noise. The glass shook in her hands, its contents almost spilling over her and the carpet; she managed to steady it at the very last minute. You ripped it from her hands and slammed it on the coffee table with such ferocity that it was a wonder it hadn't shattered. Not that it would've mattered. The damned glass — or rather the liquid inside of it — was what caused all of this, what made you remember.

You didn't want to remember.

God, you didn't want to remember.

Why did she make you remember?

You grit your teeth, anger burning through you like poison in your veins, bitter and deadly. How dare she do this to you? How dare she do this to _herself?_

"What—" Rowena tried, but you cut her off, tone as sharp as a razor, as deadly as a knife.

"You're drunk!"

You warned her that this would happen. She'd had centuries to build tolerance, but she was still tiny, still a lightweight. "It's just a few drinks," she'd said, looking at you as if you'd grown a second head. Confused as to why you'd make such a big deal out of a wee bit of alcohol.

The question was, why wasn't she making a bigger deal out of it?

Why had she let it consume her?

"I'm not drunk," Rowena said. There was no usual bite to her tone, no cattiness. She was almost gentle, almost sweet, a merchant presenting  product in a false light to an unsuspecting buyer.

Unlucky for her, this buyer was no idiot.

"You _are_ drunk." You weren't going to let her get away with this. She did it, consciously, purposely, and she had to deal with the consequences. She was a big girl, and big girls paid for what they did.

"I'm not," she all but whined. Any other time you would have found it adorable. Now, your stomach churned with disgust, and a matching expression formed on your face.

Rowena looked up at you. Her eyes, as green and deep as ancient forests, were empty, as if life had abandoned them, as if someone had turned off the light and left the soul behind them in the dark, hidden away in the deepest, darkest shadows. She appeared more confused than insistent, almost childlike. Her cheeks were red as ripe cherries, as if someone had smeared paint over her pale, porcelain skin.

She was looking through you. Her eyes were on you, but her mind was elsewhere, scattered around like powder blown away by wind. She was gone. The alcohol had taken over her.

Just like it had taken over your mother countless times in the past.

"Don't look at me like that!" you snarled.

"Like what?" Rowena asked, more an instinct than genuine curiosity. Was she even aware of your words? Of hers? She tried to intensify her gaze, but she was still lost, still far, far away from this couch, this room, this house. Far away from you.

You grabbed her shoulders, nails pressing into the soft skin, and shook her. "Stop it!" Stop looking at you like that. Stop being so confused. Stop being _drunk._

Why wouldn't she stop?

Why wouldn't your mom stop?

Why had your words not reached her? Why did they not reach Rowena?

"Don't," Rowena whined. Her body swung backwards and forwards as you shook her, like that of a ragdoll. She put her hands on your forearms in an attempt to get you to release her. Her grip was weak, as childlike as her demeanor. She could only hold on, keep her fingers loosely on you. One lighter shake, and they would fall down, limp, useless. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Why are _you_ doing this to _me?"_ you countered.

"I'm not doing anything."

Of course she'd deny it. Your mother always had, as well.

"Go to bed," you barked, an order, a demand, leaving no room for argument.

Didn't mean she wouldn't try. "Why?"

You sighed, anger flaring through you. "Go to bed, Rowena!"

Her eyes flickered to her red-painted toenails. She made no attempt to move, gaze firmly on her feet, away from your glare.

Fine. You could do this the hard way.

Grabbing hold of her wrists, you yanked her up. Rowena stumbled, but managed to remain on her feet. A surprised gasp tore from her mouth. She gave you puppy eyes, and her lips puckered into a pout. So adorable; unsettling in her state.

"Y/N—"

"You're going to bed one way or another," you told her, dragging her to the bedroom, glare hardening with each attempt at protest she made. After a while she realized it was futile and let you take her to your room. She was in no condition to fight you, or argue you. If she were to try to hex you, you were certain her magic wouldn't do much damage. She was at her weakest, at her most vulnerable, and it was all her fault.

"Okay, okay, I'm going," Rowena slurred. If you can't fight them, join them. Smartest decision she'd made this evening. "I'm going."

You shoved her on the bed. She gave a small chuckle as she bounced on it, amused in her delirium, then looked at you with those same lost, clueless eyes that were everywhere but here, that gazed through you rather than at you. They were the same as _hers;_ every time you'd scold her over her drinking habits, she'd give you that exact look, as if she didn't know what you were talking about. As if you were the madness to her sanity, and you were attacking her for seemingly no reason. As if she were innocent, and you were misguided. And she was feeling sorry for you, for her sweet little girl who'd gotten so lost that she'd resorted to attacking her mother.

You didn't need her drunken pity.

Just as you didn't need Rowena's confusion.

"What's the matter with you?" Rowena asked with a small smile. This was a game to her, a play she unwittingly starred in despite not quite understanding it.

That only made you angrier. You sent her a glare dripping with poison potent enough to kill. Your fists clenched so hard that your fingers hurt from the pressure. Why was she doing this to you? Why did she have to be so damn much like _her?_ It wasn't fair. You'd sworn to yourself never to become _her,_ and never to find someone like her. Why did she have to resemble her at her worst?

"Go to sleep," you spat.

"Alone?"

"Yes, alone." You couldn't sleep with her tonight. Not with that repugnant smell all over her. Not with all the memories roiling in your head, making it hard for you to breathe, to focus on anything other than them.

Ever since the two of you got together, you hadn't spent a single night alone. There was a first time for everything.

"You're being cruel," Rowena said, pout deepening.

 _You_ were being cruel? She triggered some of your worst memories, and _you_ were the one being cruel? You sighed, letting some of the anger out with a breath. You couldn't do this now. You'd had enough for one night.

"Shut up and go to sleep!"

With that you turned on your heel and rushed out, slamming the door closed in your wake. Rowena mumbled something, but you didn't hear her. You didn't want to hear her. She'd said — and done — enough for one night.

Returning the half-empty bottle to the liquor cabinet and putting the glass in the sink, you laid down on the couch. It still smelled like her; flowery and ethereal, the scent of a wonder, of magic. Amongst it all lingered the stink of alcohol, tarnishing the perfection. As soon as tears welled up in your eyes, they fell down your face in bitter streams. You pressed your mouth to the cushion and screamed and sobbed and wailed to your heart's content, muffled, almost silent sounds lost in its softness.

The memories you'd thought were behind you kept you up until the late hours of the night. When sleep finally came to take you away, to give you a few hours of relief, tears were still sliding down your burning cheeks.

* * *

You woke up to the sweet scent of tea.

You got up into a sitting position and stretched, a long, sleepy yawn tearing from your mouth as you did so, and looked up to find Rowena sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of steaming tea before her, eyes glued to you. Clear, intent eyes. She was back, you realized. She was here. She was home.

And she did not look happy.

A pang of guilt squeezed at your heart. Maybe you shouldn't have been so hostile to her. She didn't know about your mother. You'd never told her; it wasn't something you liked to, or even knew how to, talk about. Rowena had no way of knowing her behavior would make you remember. She'd done nothing wrong.

No.

She'd done everything wrong.

Why did she even want to drink so much doing nothing but sitting in front of some ancient movie? Who _did_ that?

You went to the bathroom to pee, then headed for the kitchen to make coffee. Usually, whoever woke up first made morning drinks — coffee and tea respectively — but this time Rowena had only made her own. She was mad at you, you realized. A bitter chuckle almost escaped you, but you held it back. Of course she was mad at you. Nothing in the world was ever Rowena MacLeod's fault.

Did she remember last night at all? Given how out of it she was, you'd expected her to be confused.

She appeared to be aware of everything.

You did your best to ignore her while you worked on your beverage. You could feel her her eyes on your back like daggers, digging into your skin, sharp, merciless. She was going to do this all day. She would be mad and act like a passive aggressive brat until the two of you talked, exchanged apologies, and leapt into each other's arms, officially on good terms again.

This time you wouldn't take the first step. If she wanted to make up, she had to be the one to break the ice.

As if she'd read your mind, Rowena said, "Care to explain what got into you last night?" Her voice was a winter's night, cold and unforgiving.

You stiffened. "Nothing." The question was, what had gotten into _her?_

She didn't buy it. "Nothing? _Nothing?"_ Her tone vent up, cruel ice melting into a sharp, deadly knife. "You treated me like a bloody criminal!"

"You're overreacting," you said.

 _"Overreacting?_ You shouted at me! You threw me on the bed! My _wrists_ hurt! I want an explanation as to why, and you are going you give it to me."

She was outraged, out of her mind. You couldn't blame her. Your shift in mood was sudden. You'd spent a pleasant day together, and the next thing she knew, you were screaming in her face and pulling her to bed. Maybe _you_ were the one who overreacted.

Maybe…

"I don't want to talk about it," you said. Not this early in the morning.

"You don't want to talk about it." Rowena huffed. "You scream at me and manhandle me, and you refuse to tell me why." The tone of her voice lowered, softened. Betrayal crept in, dripping from every word. She'd expected better from you. You'd let her down.

Is that what you'd done? Had you let her down?

"Is that how it's going to be from now on?"

"It's not like that," you said, finally turning to look at her. Why couldn't she understand?

"What's it like then?" she demanded.

 _You got drunk._ Was that a good reason to attack her? The more you thought about it, the less sure you were. She didn't know about your mother. You'd seen her tipsy before; she'd had no reason to think getting drunk would be an issue. She wasn't a violent drunk, hadn't assaulted or berated you. She was on the couch, watching her movie, not bothering anyone. Not bothering you.

For maybe the first time in centuries, Rowena was innocent. And you hurt her.

 _What have I done?_ Tears pickled at the corners of your eyes, salty with guilt. You hurt your girl. You promised to protect her, to keep her away from harm, and you hurt her.

You connected your eyes to hers, hoping to show her your regret, hoping she'd see you didn't mean to harm her. You'd made a horrible, horrible mistake, and she was the one who'd paid the price. You had to make it right.

It was time Rowena learned the truth about you, about your past. She knew you loved your mother, knew you were missing her more than anything in the world. What she didn't know, though, was that your mother was far from perfect. She'd done as many horrible things as she had good ones. Your romantization of her, of the past you'd shared with her, couldn't change that. Just as she would always be your mother, no matter what she had done, her flaws would always remain a part of her.

Rowena deserved to know. She'd told you about Fergus' father, about the Loughlins and The British Men of Letters. She'd told you about Lucifer; she'd been telling you about him for over a year now, about the things he'd done to her, about the horror his true face had tattooed on her soul. She deserved to know about your own horror.

"There's something you don't know," you said.

Rowena's eyes narrowed, curiosity mixing with suspicion. "About what?"

"About me. Well, my past."

She said nothing, silently urging you to continue. You set your coffee cup on the table, then sat down opposite Rowena. Propping your elbows up on the table, you pressed your hands together, as if in a prayer.

You took a deep, long breath for courage. "My mom liked to drink. A lot."

You cast your glance downward, avoiding Rowena's eyes. You couldn't talk about this while looking at her. Rowena didn't do pity, but, contrary to what most of the world seemed to believe, she was more than capable of compassion. You couldn't handle it at a time like this; it was embarrassing, almost patronizing. To say what you needed to out loud, you needed dignity.

"Not every day, but… it was too frequent to be healthy. Even as a kid, I knew it wasn't normal."

Your friends' mothers didn't drink. When your friends looked at them, they knew they were listened to, always, without exception.

You, on the other hand…

"When she'd get drunk, she'd get this look on her face. Like… like she was half asleep, but at the same time fully awake."

Familiar anger blossomed in you at the memory. You teeth clenched, followed by your fists. Years had passed, but the anger remained, as strong as it had been all those times you stood before her and she looked through you, thinking she was paying attention when she was doing anything but.

"And she'd look at me, and talk to me, but she wouldn't be there. I could tell. It was like looking at a stranger wearing her face. She'd nod if I talked, but she wouldn't really listen. She _couldn't_ listen."

Tears broke through, one by one sliding down your cheeks.

"You looked like her." You finally allowed yourself to look at Rowena, to show her the full extent of brokenness painted across your face. "Last night, you… you acted like her, and smelled like her. It was like looking at her all over again and being…"

Dismissed. Ignored. Discarded like common trash.

A sob tore free, and you brought your hands to your mouth to muffle it.

"I was _so_ angry. I just… I remembered everything, and I wasn't thinking. I was so damn angry."

Just as you expected, Rowena's face was full compassion, all traces of earlier anger gone. That only made you cry harder. You didn't deserve her compassion. Not after how you'd treated her.

"I'm sorry, Rowena. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean…" You didn't mean to hurt her. Rough her up. Shout at her. You didn't mean to make her a target for your rage, years old and festering, aimed at a person long gone from your life. A person you still loved, and you always would, just like you loved Rowena.

She was gone. Rowena wasn't; she would never be gone. For as long as you lived, so would she. Magic would make sure of that. You would never lose her. You would have time to love her, to talk to her, to sort out all disagreements. Unlike your mother, she listened. She took your words to heart.

You clasped your hands over your face to wipe away your tears. Sob after sob ripped from you, loud, piercing. You were wailing like a wounded animal begging for help, begging for someone to wrap you into their arms and take away the pain, take away the memories that burned as fresh as the days they were made.

Suddenly, a hand touched your shoulder. Rowena was standing beside you. Her expression was soft, loving, resembling more that of a mother than a lover. Her thin, warm arms enveloped you in an embrace. You didn't protest; turning sideways in your chair to face her, you buried your head in her chest, an inch below her breasts. Face pressed into the soft fabric of her nightgown, you cried. You cried and cried and cried, letting everything out, letting out years of suppressed emotion and memories hidden in the distant, dusty corner of your mind.

Rowena held you tight, like a mother comforting a hurting child. She whispered gentle words you couldn't make out through your sobs; you knew they were words of comfort, of care, of love from her tone alone.

"I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry," you sobbed. "Rowena, I-I…"

"It's alright, daring," Rowena cooed.

"I-I didn't mean…"

"I know. It's alright. Everything's alright."

"But I…" _I hurt you._ The thought made you sob harder.

"Shh. Don't worry about it, Y/N," Rowena said. Her hold on you tightened in emphasis of her words. "Don't dwell on it. It was just a misunderstanding."

Yes. Just a misunderstanding. The two of you had had those in the past, and you'd always resolved them.

"Please," you begged, "D-don't get drunk i-in front of me again. Y-you can drink, b-but please d-don't get drunk. Please."

"I promise," she said. She would make good on it. Unlike your mother, Rowena always kept her word. She never made promises she couldn't keep. "I'm sorry, Y/N."

What was she sorry for? She hadn't done anything. This — all of this — was on you.

After an intake of breath, Rowena continued, "You didn't deserve a childhood like that. No child deserves it. Parents take their children for granted. We never stop to think how our actions affect them. We think, if we brought them into this world, we can do with them as we please, and they'll still love us because we're their parents. Only when it's far too late do some of us realize our mistakes. Some never do."

We. It didn't take a genius to realize she was talking about herself. She'd abused, and eventually abandoned her son. It had taken her literal centuries to realize it was wrong.

Your mother didn't have centuries. She'd barely had a couple decades.

"She would've realized," you said. "If she'd had more time, she…"

"She would have," Rowena agreed.

"She loved me."

"She did."

"A few more years, and she would've realized she was wrong." She would have realized she loved you more than she loved her drinks. She would have realized your words were worth more than glasses upon glasses of alcohol. She would have realized you needed her. If only she'd had a few more years.

"She would have," Rowena repeated. "You're a lovely girl, Y/N. I'm lucky to have you in my life. I bet your mother was, too, even if she didn't know it."

Yes, she was. She was lucky to have you, and she loved you. Just like Rowena. You'd given up on your mother, but you weren't going to give up on your girl. You would love her and cherish her until you both took your very last breaths.

You snuggled closer and put your arms around Rowena, returning the hug. You clung to her like a koala clinging to a tree. Unlike your mother, Rowena would stay at your side forever. She would always be here; she wouldn't disappear in a drunken stupor, wouldn't leave, wouldn't die. She would be right here, where you needed her. She would remain a shout or a phone call away. You would never be alone again, and neither would she.

You would be each other's lanterns, lighting up the darkest of days, beacons of hope in the terrifying darkness of unwanted memories.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by my lovely friend OswinTheStrange.


End file.
